


acetylene

by Ellasperity



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Mind Control, Pheromones, and the general fucked-up-ery that comes with that, anyway consider yourself warned, but like. why would i have done that., but then google informed me of things, i literally only googled her when i started writing this, moral of the story is i learned about, osyraa is christmas colored so this is thematically acceptable to write i don't make the rules, so i would know how to spell her ridiculous name, so themes of, things i would know about orions if i ever watched a trek that didn't have a lady captain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellasperity/pseuds/Ellasperity
Summary: “I’m out of the chair,” she says the minute Osyraa walks into the brig. “Are you ready to kill me yet?”
Relationships: Sylvia Tilly/Osyraa
Kudos: 27





	acetylene

**Author's Note:**

> listen sometimes an evil lady sits in a captain's chair _like that_ and the rational brain turns off and the gay brain takes over

“I’m out of the chair,” she says the minute Osyraa walks into the brig. “Are you ready to kill me yet?” 

Osyraa slinks closer. She walks like a lizard, Tilly thinks, and it's not because she’s green. It’s the dry kind of slimy about her, and the lazy stroll that threatens to dart off faster than you can follow with your eyes the second a shadow goes over her perfect patch of evil sunshine. She’s smiling like she just ate a particularly tasty bug. 

“Now why would I do that,” she says once she’s close enough to touch, if not for the force field between them. 

“Oh, I dunno,” Tilly says. Left alone for a couple hours, she managed to work through every stage of mortification and grief and settled into pure, unbridled rage. She’s going to keep rolling with that, because otherwise, she might cry. “Maybe because you’re an evil slug who knows if you let me live I am going to pour salt all over you.” 

Osyraa has the audacity to smirk. She even lets out a little laugh. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you. For me to march you back out onto the bridge and put a particle beam through your head in front of the crew, because that would be a sign of respect, wouldn’t it? Validate your brief, tragic little captaincy.” 

Tilly hates that she can feel her cheeks going red. Anger, she reminds herself. Anger is allowed. Nothing else. Not until Discovery is safe again, and then you can shove your entire face in a pillow and scream. 

“But no, I’m not going to give you that, _Acting Captain Tilly._ ” She slides one toe across the field line, drawing a taunting little semi-circle, like a mean older sister who was told to keep on her own half of the room, not to cross the duct tape bisecting their begrudgingly shared space. Toying with her. _Even your prison is mine, now_. “Want to know why?” 

“No,” Tilly says, then feels her cheeks getting even redder because she sounds exactly like the petulant child in her mental equation, the little sib who just wants to be left alone in her own damn bed, and is not above calling mommy and daddy to make it happen. She straightens up, finishes it off with a definitely more mature glare. 

“Because you made me like you,” she says, and her sideways little smile turns into half a grin. 

“W-well,” Tilly says, entirely caught off guard and probably making that pretty damn obvious. “The feeling is _not_ mutual.” 

Osyraa crosses the line in one of those lizard-steps Tilly was waiting for, fast and scuttley but not away, no, she’s right up close and personal, an inch from Tilly’s nose and to hell with nothing but angry, Tilly takes a step back. 

Osyraa is a bully, and anyone who tells you not to be scared of bullies is an idiot. Stand up to them, sure, but also just know you are absolutely going to get punched in the face and lose your lunch money because of it well before they start feeling better about themselves and have had enough of your forced attention. 

“That’s okay,” she says evenly, following Tilly’s back-step with one of her own, then another, until Tilly is all the way back at the wall and her ears feel like they’re on fire and she told herself she was going to be her own damn acting captain through all this but what her brain has left to offer is WWMD — _What Would Michael Do?_ but the problem is Michael would probably see this as a great opportunity to show off her hand-to-hand combat skills and Tilly, while as well trained as any Starfleet ensign can be under the circumstances, just had this woman manhandle her out of the captain’s chair like she weighed as much as hydrogen, or helium, or hydrogen cyanide...

“What was that you said? Something like… we don’t _really_ know each other yet. And besides, I’m not very likeable.” 

...hydrogen fluoride, methane, ethylene… 

“Unless I decide I want to be liked,” she adds, ignorant of the list of lighter-than-air substances Tilly is ticking through in a valiant effort to keep from shrinking farther down the wall. Diborane. Illuminating gasses. “And that is a privilege you haven’t earned, yet.” 

She raises one long-fingered hand to the side of Tilly’s head. She flinches away, but Osyraa just tsks and follows, tucking a particularly adventurous strand of her ponytail back behind her ear. Her long, deadly nail grazes the skin there, as threatening as a blade, and Tilly feels every inch of skin from neck to ankles break out in goosebumps. 

Carbon monoxide. 

It's just supposed to be another one down the list, but is it suddenly hard to breathe in here? 

“What, no more angry banter?” Osyraa teases. “Scared to lose your tongue?” The nail drags down along her jaw, taps her bottom lip. Stays there. Sharp. Heavy. 

“I thought antennae were more your thing,” she manages. 

That thin-lipped smile gets a little wider. “I do have a certain fondness for the sensory organs,” she says, as though remarking on a favorite cuisine. 

Michael would bite her thumb off, Tilly thinks. She would. She would just go for it, screw the consequences. 

Or maybe, Michael would recognize a losing situation when she was in one, and flirt back. 

Well, that thought just makes Tilly’s ears go from pink to crimson. Like, sure, yeah, that’s what’s happening here, right? The weird, smug, taunting, touchy-feely thing happening in here is way too… specific to be anything else, but that doesn’t mean Tilly knows what to _do_ with that. Honestly, Georgiou did this too — made every inch of her meanness come with an edge like _and if you stop embarrassing yourself and impress me, I might just make you forget your own name_ but it didn’t actually mean anything. It was just another kind of manipulation, and Tilly doesn’t play this game. Or, she plays it in thirty second bursts because all the captains she’s ever known kind of play the game, staring down the viewscreen at an enemy it’s better to exchange mean, flirty words with than photon torpedoes, but that’s it. Thirty seconds, then it’s back to ammonia, neon, nitrogen— 

“Nothing terrifies a person more than the realization that they’ll be left alive, but never experience a meaningful piece of their pitiful existence again.” 

The nail slides between her teeth and pulls down, Osyraa’s other hand coming up and grabbing hold of her ponytail when she starts just lowering her chin rather than opening her mouth. 

Orions are, on average, barely any stronger than humans, so whatever Osyraa’s deal is with this whole “my nail is stronger than your jaw bone” situation, it’s gotta be technological. Somewhere in all that pirate-y space leather, she’s wearing something that means when Tilly’s hair is being dragged one way and her teeth the other, she opens her damn mouth. 

Osyraa pinches her tongue between two of those jaw-wrenching nails. She holds her there for a second, letting Tilly feel every awful inch of the embarrassment, the debasement, the faint fear that maybe this isn’t all just part of the game, that maybe she really will sever the tongue that called her a fraud with nothing but her lizard claws and call it a day. 

Then, the touch gentles, the tip of one finger stroking across the flat of her tongue, the tip of the nail just barely dragging after it, enough to feel its edge prickle each taste bud it passes. “I don’t have to do that to you,” she laughs. “Or, perhaps I should say, I already did.” 

Tilly’s tongue feels very strange in the wake of Osyraa’s skin. Heavy. Tingly. Her head spins. There’s one gas left. She remembers the acronym — 4H Medic Anna: thirteen letters, thirteen gasses — but the last lighter-than-air compound escapes her. A. A for something. She sways. 

“After all,” Osyraa continues, steadying her with a hand at her waist that Tilly is deeply, discomfortingly aware of through her uniform. She wants Osyraa to be as cold to the touch as she is with her movements, her words, but the hand is all heat, and it’s spreading. “I could tell by just how hard you were trying, out there.” She puts on a little pout, arches an eyebrow. “That it meant a terrible deal to you, Red. Sitting in that chair.” 

Her eyes are very dark and very, very close. Tilly finds she’s fascinated by the strangest things about her face — the point where each long, dark eyelash vanishes into the darkest green around her eyes. The way her lips seem blue one moment, green the next. The dimple in her chin.

“And now you’ll never be a captain again.” 

_Fuck you_ , Tilly thinks, and she means to say it, but she doesn’t because she’s… 

Kissing her? 

Uh, yeah. Okay. That’s. That’s definitely lips. On hers. And it’s not Osyraa that put them there. It’s… her? She’s got her hand around the back of Osyraa’s neck and she’s not even remotely trying to strangle her, she’s… she’s… 

Jesus, she’s warm, and she’s doing something with her tongue that makes Tilly let out a whimper and dig her nails in and feel her toes curl in her boots and she’s _maybe_ going to fall over? Except Osyraa still has a hand on her waist, then it’s two hands, one on each hip, pushing her back against the wall, sliding a thigh between her own which is really… quite nice of her, what with Tilly not doing such a great job of keeping on her feet and all when those deadly nails are digging in in a way that makes every inch of her skin twitch and shiver and wake up and lean in and— 

“Oh, you’re _very_ susceptible, aren’t you?” 

Tilly hears the words, but she doesn’t _hear_ them, not when it means Osyraa stopped kissing her, not when her lips feel cold and empty and— 

She leans in, burying her head against Osyraa’s throat, kissing the skin there, tasting her, tasting something not quite like human skin. Not salt. Some adjacent, relative element and something— 

“It’s hit or miss, with women,” Osyraa says, her voice a little lower, darker, and Tilly is inordinately pleased to think maybe she did that. She drags her nose up behind her ear, breathing in the strange, intoxicating scent of her. “But I had a good feeling about you.” 

She brings her hand up to tangle in Tilly’s hair, pressing her right where she is, against her warmth, her skin. “You like me much better now, don’t you?” 

“No,” Tilly whispers against her throat, then lets her eyes flutter closed and her mouth stay open, sliding her tongue along the pulse there. It was true. She definitely doesn’t like her at all, she just… 

Really, really wants her? 

The words start to sink through the haze. Hit or miss with women. “Pheromones?” she breathes out. “Really?” 

Osyraa laughs. “Oh, this is delicious. Very susceptible, but very bright. It won’t help.” She runs a nail back and forth over the neckline of Tilly's uniform, then drags down, hard, and Tilly gasps as she feels the fabric tear. It should be next to impossible to rip this. It’s a goddamn Starfleet space suit. Those nails must be more tech than show, too. She keeps dragging until it’s split all the way down from neck to navel, and Tilly manages to pull herself back at the feeling of the cold brig air against that much skin. 

It should help, but it doesn’t. Whatever the Orion chemicals are mixing together between her neurons, they kick into overdrive when she’s looking at her. Was she this fucking hot back when she was sprawling out in the captain’s chair, leg up on the seat, smirking at her? 

Probably. 

Shit. 

Tilly kisses her again. 

Osyraa laughs against her mouth, a really, disgustingly delighted sound, so Tilly just kisses her harder, but then Osyraa is kissing _her_ harder, and she’s yielding, and melting back against the wall, and one of those deadly, long-fingered hands is sliding down the path she made in Tilly’s uniform, down into the last few inches of it, down between her legs. 

“Yes,” Osyraa murmurs against her mouth. “I _do_ like you. A little bundle—” Her nail _curls_ around Tilly’s clit, and she squeaks. “—of rage. All wound up and no place to go.” 

“Please,” Tilly whispers when fingertips toy between her legs, nothing but a tease, a taunt to go with her words, and Tilly would _kill_ for that to have been a please stop, but every single pleasure cell in her cross-wired brain isn’t letting her say the second word. 

“Please what, Red? Please fuck me against the wall of my prison cell while we wait for the Federation to let in this little Trojan horse you gave me?” 

“I didn’t— give you— anything,” Tilly gasps out, and suddenly she has five nails digging into the most tender part of her body, pinching her labia _hard_. She whimpers, curling in on herself, scrabbling at the wall as Osyraa gives her a mean little smile and pulls her down, down, until she’s kneeling on the floor, eyes wide with pain and something that isn’t at all pain, that she shouldn’t still be feeling, not like this. 

“Giving… taking…” Osyraa offers. “You’ll find there’s little difference, with me. If I want it, you’ll give it to me, whether you meant to or not.” 

Then the nails let go, and there’s a flash of relief, a flush of blood racing to fill the abused skin, and then the pad of one finger drags carefully up the length of her slit and she feels, with a horrified, red-cheeked, dizzy, tantalizing embarrassment, that she’s absolutely drenched. And yeah, she’s got enough brain cells left to get that this is chemical, that she’s managed to be one of the zero point zero zero zero three percent of human women who reacts to Orion pheromones with suggestibility, dangerously elevated heart rate, and heightened senses rather than a much-more-convenient irritability and headache, but just because she _knows_ doesn’t mean she can _stop_ , and Osyraa’s fingertip is drawing light, perfect little circles around her clit without the slightest bit of nail and it’s… it’s really… it’s going to make her… 

“There now, Captain Red,” Osyraa coos as Tilly comes with a gasp, slumping forward, forehead pressing into the leather over Osyraa’s thigh. “Aren’t you glad I decided you earned the privilege of liking me?” 

“I do not… like you…” Tilly gasps even as a part of her wants to turn her head just a bit, bury her face between those green thighs and see whether the chemicals she’d taste between her legs would be enough to make her forget the anger, the humiliation, the failure completely. The thought is more alluring than it should be. She aches, all over, and not just where Osyraa scoured her raw. 

“Fiiiine,” she agrees. “Not yet.” She pets Tilly, stroking her fingers through her hail, nails just scraping her scalp. “But you will.” 

Then she lets go, leaving her to slump back boneless against the wall of the brig as the new embodiment of several longstanding Starfleet nightmares — failure, day one of command; showing up for work half naked; you know, normal stress dream things, things that aren't supposed to actually _happen_ — sidles out of the cell, humming to herself. 


End file.
